


Happily Ever After

by Carriefx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Pastiche, Period-Typical Homophobia, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carriefx/pseuds/Carriefx
Summary: A client hesitates on the pavement: the sure sign of a love affair. Holmes, weary of all things sentimental, is on the point of refusing her case. But when Watson’s soon-to-be fiancée calls unexpectedly, Holmes notices something that changes his mind. He and Watson embark on an investigation with a deep personal impact for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Happily Ever After (blog post)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/237949) by Dr. John H. Watson. 



The case of Mrs. Sabrina Jennings did not, at first, appear to be anything out of the ordinary. From the window of 221B Baker Street, where I had just taken luncheon with my friend and fellow-lodger Sherlock Holmes, I perceived a fashionably dressed young lady lingering indecisively on the pavement outside our door. She took a step forward, paused, turned away, and then returned with a resolute air, only to still her hand the moment she touched our bell pull. My curiosity was aroused, but when I described the scene to Holmes he did not take the trouble to rise from his chair, or even to open his eyes.

“How very tedious,” he sighed. “A love affair.”

Holmes was in the grip of one of his black moods, and had spent much of the week either prostrate upon the sofa or pacing the room with restless energy, sharpening his tongue upon such well-worn topics as the failings of the justice system and the futility of human emotion. I, by contrast, had been courting a former client of ours, the charming Miss Mary Morstan, and had reached that delightful stage in our relations when I was reasonably certain of her affection and was contemplating an offer of marriage. I was therefore far from agreeing with my friend’s assessment of love affairs in general. I humoured him, however, and asked why he believed that our client-to-be wished to consult with us on a matter of the heart.

“I have seen these symptoms before,” came the languid reply. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means that romantic sentiment is in play. She would like advice, but is not sure if the matter is too sensitive for communication. We shall likely be treated to a tale in the same style, replete with false beginnings, blushing disavowals and delicate euphemisms. But as she has now summoned the courage to announce her presence, I suppose we must receive her.”

We heard a quick step upon the staircase, and a moment later our housekeeper announced the visitor. Holding the door for her, I noted that her elegant dress was complemented by some expensive, although rather old-fashioned, jewellery that encircled her wrists and glinted amongst her dark ringlets. Her features were striking, her bearing somewhat haughty, but it was the mixture of desperation and defiance in her glance that made the strongest impression upon me. Holmes merely bid her to be seated, and to state her case as concisely as possible.

“I shall be glad to do so,” she declared, “for the fewer words we must squander on this sorry affair, the better for us all. I believe that my husband is unfaithful to me, and I wish for proof.” 

“At least in _this_ you raise yourself above the commonplace,” Holmes remarked, ungraciously. “Countless others have consulted me on the same question, but most of _them_ wished for proof of the contrary.” 

Mrs. Jennings flushed. “My motivations are my own affair. Will you, or will you not, be able to assist me?” 

I hastened to interpose. “Why do you believe that your husband is unfaithful?” 

“I imagine that she has examined his private diary,” Holmes interjected, before she could speak. “Your husband is a lawyer, madam: the card you left with our housekeeper indicates the address of his firm on Chancery Lane. Given his profession, he often works at unusual hours: his absence from the house would not, therefore, be cause for suspicion. You speak with conviction, so you have some other evidence that you consider persuasive enough to justify my involvement. It is not tangible: had you found a locket of hair, or a trinket, you would have brought it with you and produced it immediately. Your hesitation suggests that it was obtained by underhand methods. A stolen glance into a private diary is the most probable explanation.” 

I could not repress an admiring smile at this speech, although my friend had delivered it in a weary monotone, with little of his usual flair. Our client, on the other hand, appeared nonplussed, although she readily confirmed his supposition. 

“I have made a copy of the entry in question,” she replied, holding out a slip of paper. “‘ _Meet T., 8 p.m., GPS_ ’. When I asked my husband about his plans for this evening, he claimed that he was attending the theatre, alone. Would you gentlemen be so kind as to follow him from the house, and provide me with a report of his activities?” 

This request, I was certain, would be the last straw for Holmes, who in general despises surveillance work unless it affords ample scope for deduction as well as observation. I believe he was on the point of refusing the case when a diversion occurred: the young lady whom I was courting, Miss Mary Morstan, entered the room. 

She had walked all the way from Camberwell in spite of the wind and rain; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright from the exercise. She entered our lodgings with cheerful familiarity, for she had called upon us frequently since the resolution of her case. Seeing our client, however, she stopped short with a courteous apology for her intrusion; Mrs. Jennings, who had at first frowned at the interruption, appeared mollified. The news Miss Morstan had to communicate was as delightful as its bearer: my assistant had informed her that my two afternoon patients had cancelled their appointments: I might therefore spend the rest of the day at my leisure. I thanked her warmly for her trouble, and promised to call upon her as soon as I was able. With a nod to Holmes and a smile at me, she withdrew from the room. 

Pleasant though it was, her short visit would not be worth recording, were it not for the rather extraordinary change that it produced in Holmes. He sat up straighter in his chair, and stilled the restless motion of his fingers against the armrest. His gaze became intense and searching, focused first upon Mrs. Jennings and then, briefly and disconcertingly, upon me. 

“You have been married for some five years,” he said to our client, his sharp eyes skimming her wedding ring. 

She regarded him in surprise. “Very nearly. I was married on the ninth of November, 1883.” 

“Your wedding was surely a splendid affair. Where was it held?”

“At St. Stephen’s, in Hampstead.” 

“Were many guests present?” 

“About two hundred.”

“Groomsmen?” 

“Yes, some friends of my husband’s.” 

“And you yourself were attended by bridesmaids, no doubt?” 

“Only one: Joanna Warrens, my maid of honour.” Mrs. Jennings pursed her lips, then added, with some asperity, “I assume that there is a purpose to these questions?”

“I have but one more,” Holmes prevaricated smoothly. “I should like to know your maiden name.” 

“It is Henshaw.”

“Very well,” he said, rising to his feet in indication that this strange interrogation had concluded. “I shall be happy to look into this affair. Call here at the same hour tomorrow, if you please, for a report of our progress." 

Mrs. Jennings thus dismissed, Holmes returned to his chair by the fire, pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin and stared into the flames. Intrigued though I was, I knew him too well to interrupt his thoughts, so instead took up a newspaper and settled quietly into the armchair opposite. Glancing now and then in his direction, I was pleased to see that his dejection had been replaced by a look of interest and anticipation. 

“Mrs. Jennings is a rather singular young lady,” he remarked at length. “What is your opinion?” 

“It is possible that her husband married her for her fortune, rather than for love,” I offered. “That may explain why he is tempted to seek his pleasure elsewhere.”

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. “It is not _his_ motive that I am concerned with. Did you not observe anything extraordinary in her behaviour just now?” 

I cast my mind back over our interview, but could recall nothing worthy of remark. “She seemed extremely composed, despite her initial hesitation,” I ventured at last. 

Holmes smiled. “Very true. Her oscillation upon the pavement is not quite consistent with her subsequent conduct or with the story she has presented to us. A woman seeking revenge upon a man who has wronged her thus does not hesitate – why should she? However, this is not the feature of her case that most interests me.” 

I hoped that he would elaborate, but in this, as so often, I was disappointed. He merely smiled and took up his violin, commencing an energetic sonata that forestalled any further questioning on my part. “We shall need our wits about us tonight, my dear Watson. We are treading upon delicate ground.” 

oooOOOooo

Later that day, immaculately attired in evening dress, Holmes and I stood at the corner where Duke Street runs into Grosvenor Square, some three hundred yards away from our client’s home. The night was cold; our breath froze in the air between us, and although we had not been waiting above an hour, my injured shoulder had already begun to ache. I did not, however, regret for a moment that I had accompanied my friend. A frisson of anticipation passed through me when the clock struck a half past seven, and, turning to Holmes, I saw an answering gleam in his eyes. When adventure beckoned we were, as always, in perfect accord. 

A moment later our client’s husband, Mr. Christopher Jennings, emerged from the house. He was a little shorter than Holmes, but must have doubled him in weight; the ample coat that he wore was tight about his midriff. Like his wife, he was fashionably dressed and almost excessively well groomed, the curl of his moustache clearly the product of intensive labour. Passing onto the street, he glanced about him, straightened his cuffs, then set off in the direction of Oxford Street. 

Holmes and I waited, with all the patience of bloodhounds straining at the leash, until he was a good distance ahead of us, then commenced our pursuit of him through the chilly streets of Mayfair, sometimes ducking into doorways to avoid his sight, sometimes strolling casually among our fellow pedestrians, to all appearances just two among a thousand fine gentlemen on their way to the theatre or opera house. At last, our quarry approached a certain highly priced dining establishment in Great Portland Street, consulted a gold-plated pocket watch, and walked inside. 

Holmes gestured for me to wait, then darted into the restaurant himself. A minute later, he was beckoning to me from the window: he had succeeded in procuring us a table in an alcove not six feet away from the place where Mr. Jennings was now seated. Careful not to glance in that direction, I hastened to join my friend, who was smiling in evident satisfaction at his skillful management of the affair.

“There are certain features in a space such as this which must appeal, consciously or not, to anyone planning an illicit rencontre,” he explained in a low voice. “Seclusion is of course required, as is dim lighting and an excellent view of the door. In this half of the room the tables are spaced at least five inches further apart than in the other, and observe how low these candles burn! I anticipated that our man would seat himself here, even before he had moved in this direction.”

“It is certainly conducive to romance,” I agreed. “Jennings keeps his mistress in some style, it appears.” 

We made a show of perusing the menu, and Holmes went so far as to order _hors d’oeuvres_ and a bottle of good wine. We had not waited above five minutes, however, when a small, wiry gentleman entered the room, peering about him expectantly with dark, beady eyes. Holmes gave a start of recognition: the gentleman was Mr. Turpin, a private detective with whom he had been obliged to collaborate on a recent case of forgery, and whom he had charitably described as a “bungling fool.” Holmes immediately raised the menu to conceal his face: a wise precaution, as it turned out, for Turpin was soon headed in our direction. I assumed that he, too, would seat himself in one of the alcoves, but to my surprise he approached Jennings instead, drawing up a chair at his table. This, then, was the mysterious ‘T.’ whom Jennings had come to meet! This, the well-kept mistress! I could not help but smile at the incongruity. 

Jennings had watched Turpin’s approach with an eager, almost covetous, expression on his face. “You have the evidence?” he asked, in lieu of a greeting. 

“I do indeed,” Turpin replied, shrugging off his heavy coat. Despite his assertion, there was a hint of apology in his reedy voice. “I have dedicated the past seven days and nights to this affair. Your wife frequently leaves the house in the afternoons and walks alone to the same address: number 22 in Curzon Street. This I have documented meticulously, as you can see.” He opened the slim brown folder that he had been carrying beneath his arm, and slid it across the table. 

Jennings leafed rapidly through the contents. “I see little of interest here. You did not attempt to discover what occurred _inside_ the house during my wife’s visits?” 

“22 Curzon Street is the home of a Miss Joanna Warrens,” Turpin prevaricated. “She is a well-respected spinster who lives alone, and whom I have determined to be an old schoolfriend of your wife’s. I have watched the house around the clock, but have not observed any gentleman enter or leave; nor have the neighbours seen any stranger in the vicinity. My conclusion is therefore that your wife is _not_ engaged in an illicit relationship with the connivance of her friend. Her visits are of an innocent nature.”

“Innocent?” Jennings repeated, dropping the folder onto the table. “How, then, do you explain their frequency and duration?” 

“Women, I have observed, often become restless when they are alone,” Turpin opined, with the air of an indulgent connoisseur. “They yearn for the companionship of others of their sex.”

“Very well.” There was now a distinct trace of mockery in Jennings’ voice. “I must bow to your superior comprehension of the feminine psyche. You have convinced me that a restless yearning for female companionship is _precisely_ what is motivating my wife in these afternoon visits.” 

Turpin blinked rather stupidly and cleared his throat. “You were right to consult me as you did, sir. I am delighted that, in this instance, your fears have proved unfounded. The virtue of your charming wife is beyond question. Should you ever again have cause for suspicion, you may rely upon me to throw light on the affair.” 

I must here confess that Holmes’ expression of withering contempt at this latter speech obliged me to cover my face with my handkerchief for several minutes to smother my laughter. Holmes watched me cough and splutter, a smile tugging at his own lips. “It is not so very amusing, Watson,” he admonished. “You would not be so well entertained if you were dependent on Turpin to ‘throw light’ upon your own affairs! But we have obtained the information we came for. Let us move to another table, where we will draw less attention to ourselves. Jennings intends to dine here, I see, so we will have ample time to enjoy the _Chateau Lafite_.” 

We duly relocated to the opposite part of the room, where I continued to reflect with amusement on the denouement of an affair that Holmes had considered so promising. It was rare indeed for his instinct to fail him. I could not help but ask if he were not disappointed. “For, far from the intrigue you had foreseen, there appears to be nothing more to this business than mutual misunderstanding,” I mused. “The wife suspects that the husband is unfaithful; the husband suspects the wife, and both are happily mistaken”. 

Holmes put down his glass and regarded me pensively. “Now we come to the point, Watson. Neither of them is happy, and only one mistaken.” 

 “How so?” I asked, surprised. 

“I told you this morning that something unusual about Mrs. Jennings had caught my attention. Had you forgotten?” 

“I confess that, since you did not explain it at the time, it made no lasting impression upon my mind.” 

“You know my methods,” Holmes replied. “When in conversation with a client I do not merely study her attire or facial expression, but also the myriad of unconscious looks and gestures that reveal the inner workings of her mind.” 

“I am aware of it, my dear fellow,” I remarked, somewhat impatiently.

“During the brief time that Mrs. Jennings was in our sitting room, I perceived a number of subtle indicators which, taken together, presented a suggestive picture. A particular motion of her eyes, and the places in which they lingered. The dilation of her pupils. Subtle alterations in her breathing. The reorientation of her body towards an object of her appreciation. In short, indicators of sexual attraction.”

“She was attracted to you,” I surmised, not in the least astonished. Holmes’ tall person, aristocratic features and the considerable charm that he is capable of exercising when he so chooses have frequently proved irresistible to our female clients. Up until this moment, however, he had always appeared oblivious to their interest. I had rather assumed that human sexuality was one of the few but spectacular gaps in his knowledge. 

“No, she was not attracted to me,” Holmes answered, with a faint smile. “Or to you either, Watson: do not flatter yourself.”

“Then to whom?” 

His smile turned wry. “Whom indeed? I fear that I may shock you. We never talk of such matters. But you must, surely, be aware of the phenomenon of homosexual attraction?”

For reasons that I could not quite explain, the heat rushed into my cheeks at this question. I then flushed still harder at the thought of how my reaction must appear to Holmes. For several minutes I was quite unable to meet his eye; when I finally did so, his gaze was intent and speculative. 

“I am aware of it,” I remarked, stiffly. “But I would not expect to encounter the affliction in a respectable woman.” 

“I assure you that ‘the affliction’, as you term it, is not confined to the male population, the lower classes, or indeed to any other faction of society,” Holmes answered, sharply. “Is that your only thought on the matter?”

“No, indeed,” I blustered. “You have just implied that our client is sexually attracted to... to Miss Morstan, of all people! Do you believe that her interest is reciprocated?” 

“I see little reason for alarm on that score.” 

“In that case, _I_ see no reason to further consider the subject.” 

“Ah, Watson,” Holmes sighed. “In so many matters you are my moral compass, but in this I must risk offending your sensibilities. It is a subject which I _cannot_ cease to consider.” 

We regarded each other in silence for a long while. Try as I might, I could not decipher his expression, but there was a hint of wistful reproach that made me instantly regret my hasty words. I also received the unaccountable impression that I had disappointed, or even wounded him. The very possibility cut me to the quick. Before I could attempt a reply, however, he dropped his gaze and added, with a shrug: “Our client has appealed to us for help. I cannot disregard her inclinations in my efforts to assist her.” 

“No, of course not,” I answered warmly. “I apologise, Holmes. Of course we have a duty to our client. You have concluded, then, that she is engaged in an affair with the female friend whom she visits?” 

“The evidence is circumstantial, but it does point in that direction.” 

“Is her husband aware of it?” 

“I believe so, despite Turpin’s touching defence of her ‘innocence’ and ‘virtue’”. 

“Then I do not very well see what is to be done,” I mused. “The husband is the wronged party, after all. He will surely persist in gathering evidence until he has created a scandal.” 

Holmes shook his head. “You forget two essential questions, Watson: why did she hesitate outside our door and, more importantly, why did she overcome that hesitation to consult with us in the first place? Discover _that_ …” 

“… and our way ahead is clear!” I anticipated, eagerly. 

“On the contrary, it is obscured by a veritable thunderhead of moral ambiguity,” he corrected me cheerfully. “Settle the bill would you, my good fellow? I believe I know where he is heading, but he may yet surprise us.” And before I could recover from my own surprise, he had sprung to his feet, seized his coat, and strode from the room amid a swirl of black fabric.

I immediately turned to the window, and saw that Jennings had likewise left the restaurant and was now crossing the street at a brisk pace, with the agile figure of my friend leaping from shadow to shadow behind him. Repressing an oath, I signaled to the waiter and fumbled in my pockets for the requisite notes and coins, before hurrying out into the night in pursuit of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least half of any kudos I get for this story are dedicated to my beta, Emma Ockham, for all her helpful comments and suggestions: thank you! 
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and if you find any I’ll be happy to fix them.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :-)


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, I confess that I rose several hours later than was my custom. On leaving the restaurant, I had succeeded in catching up with Holmes before many minutes had elapsed, and we had followed Jennings as far as Chancery Lane. Although I was unsure of the purpose of our expedition, I had the greatest faith in Holmes’ sagacity, and was more than content to wait, pressed close beside him in the dark space between two gas lamps, while Jennings entered his office (with Turpin’s brown folder tucked under his arm) and exited (without the folder) a short while later. Holmes had then picked the lock and searched the building while I stood guard outside. When he emerged, his coat was bulging with what appeared to be an entire shelf’s worth of stolen files. I immediately relieved him of the heavier items, despite the fact that he refused to enlighten me as to their content, and we roamed the street until we could find a hansom cab to take us home.

It was not, however, the aftereffects of our jaunt around London, nor the lateness of our return to Baker Street, that led to my tardiness the next morning. Rather, I had had some considerable difficulty in sleeping. The case was foremost in my mind and, in the silence of my bedchamber, my thoughts returned to Mrs. Jennings and her lover with unsettling persistence.

I had not led a sheltered life. I had served in the army, and witnessed many things that I did not speak of on my return to London society. Inversion, however, was a matter to which I had given but cursory thought. I had considered it to be the result of a misdirected animal passion: man humping man as one goat might ride upon another, for no reason other than propinquity. The notion that genuine attraction, or, indeed, feelings of a more tender nature, might lie behind the act, was wholly new to me. Once it had taken root in my mind, it ceased to shock and began to intrigue me.

The truth was that I had, myself, experienced physical appreciation towards other men. I had had close male friends for whom I would have laid down my life in an instant. For a former commander I had felt an admiration that bordered upon infatuation. Yet any indication that such feelings might take me beyond the realm of friendship, or any desire on my part to express them through sexual acts, I had dismissed as a momentary lapse in judgement. It only now occurred to me that this attraction had been equally poignant, and not substantially different in nature, to that which I had ever felt towards women. 

As the grey light of dawn crept through my windows, I began to question the very foundations upon which my future was to be built. I had always assumed that I would marry a woman, so I had not hesitated to act upon the appreciation that I felt for Mary Morstan. But could my assumption have blinded me to a deeper passion for a far closer companion, which had operated upon me for years before I had ever heard her name? My mind recoiled from the question, as if I had struck at a dam and then sensed, in the awful trembling of the stones beneath my fingers, the full force of the torrent pent behind it. The thoughts pursued me through vivid, fitful dreams until the morning.

When I finally emerged from my chambers, I thought it wisest to suppress the insights of the night until I had leisure to consider them further. Anxious that no change in my manner should betray me to Holmes, I occupied myself with my toast and marmalade for rather longer than my appetite required, and retreated behind a newspaper as soon as breakfast was over. The human imagination, however, has a perverse will of its own. My thoughts strayed irresistibly towards Holmes, and, before many minutes had elapsed, my eyes were likewise drawn in his direction.

He was standing by the window, head bent and brow furrowed as he assembled some scientific apparatus of his own devising. I had watched him thus countless times before, admiring his ingenuity and the focused enthusiasm with which he worked. Now, however, I noticed also what a striking figure he cut. My eyes lingered on his high cheekbones and slender waist, and followed the deft movements of his fingers over the glassware. My mouth was dry, my own fingers twitched, and the newspaper lay forgotten in my lap.

“Watson,” he said, and I looked up with a guilty start to find that his all-seeing gaze was fixed upon me. “You have had two hours of sleep at the very most.”

“I am perfectly well,” I sighed. 

“I heard no nightmares,” he continued, ignoring my feeble assertion. “Nor were you in pain, for your movements are free enough. Nor do I believe that toting cumbersome paperwork around Holborn yesterday evening inflamed your passions to the point of disturbing your sleep.”

“It was not the most compelling of our adventures,” I agreed, flushing despite myself at his choice of words. He was regarding me with that razor-sharp attention that he generally directed towards the muddy footprints around a corpse. I reminded myself how abruptly his interest would dissipate if he divined my thoughts; I had so often heard him speak of emotion as an irksome flaw in the human psyche.

Perhaps he had already detected more than he cared to: his gaze returned to the equipment in his hands. “You intend to call upon Miss Morstan, I presume.” 

“No, indeed,” I replied, startled. “I will spend the day here, and assist you with the case, if you have no objection.”

He did not look up, but my breath caught in my throat at the sight of his smile. “None whatsoever,” he answered.

It was a considerable relief to me when the doorbell sounded shortly after two, announcing Mrs. Jennings. I rose to my feet, but Holmes was faster: he opened the door for her, then ushered me towards the most comfortable armchair. “I fear that Dr. Watson is still feeling the effects of last night’s adventures,” he said, addressing our client. “After following your husband from the house as agreed, we did not return here until the early hours of this morning.”

“I am grateful to you both for your efforts,” Mrs. Jennings assured us perfunctorily, before adding, in unconscious imitation of her husband, “you have the evidence?”

“We do indeed,” Holmes replied, with an amused glance at me. “But I fear that it will not be to your liking. You asked us to prove that your husband is unfaithful to you. Our investigation last night revealed evidence of a rather different nature.”

With these words, he handed her the brown folder that we had retrieved from Jennings’ office the night before. She bit her lip as she perused its contents, but displayed no other sign of emotion as she passed it back to him. “I do not understand your meaning.”

“The information in this folder,” Holmes explained, “was obtained at your husband’s request by a private detective, a Mr. Turpin, whom he met yesterday evening. You need not fear its contents: Turpin is more formidable for his persistence than for his perspicacity. However, this is merely the latest in a series of reports on your visits to Curzon Street, some of which date from before your marriage. Taken together, they paint a fairly conclusive picture.”

“They indicate that my husband has a most unhealthy obsession with my affairs!” 

“That is undoubtedly true,” Holmes acknowledged. “However, I believe that there is more to this than meets the eye. If you truly wish for me to help you and, by extension, Miss Warrens, you will need to confide in me. Both Watson and I give our solemn promise that nothing you say will ever leave this room.” 

Although I did not see what help we might provide, beyond our discretion, I trusted that he had some reason for insisting upon a confession. It was no easy matter for our client, however: although Holmes had spoken gently, she turned pale at his words. The slightest suspicion of sexual impropriety could destroy her reputation in an instant; it was likewise a subject so intimate that an admission to two male strangers must have seemed abhorrent to her. As her silence persisted, my sympathy for her predicament grew acute, and I looked to my friend in a wordless plea for clemency.

“Come,” he said, “I shall endeavour to earn your confidence. Your brief visit yesterday provided me with information that piqued my interest in your case. Firstly, it was evident that the wealth of your family exceeds that of your husband’s. Your maiden name matches the letter ‘H.’ engraved in the heirlooms you are wearing; it is also a name that I have frequently encountered in the society section of the London newspapers. As regards your husband, I have a professional knowledge of his law firm, and am aware that it was on the verge of bankruptcy five years ago, before it was saved by an injection of funds, corresponding to the date of your marriage.

None of this, in itself, is worthy of remark: it is not unheard of for a woman of wealth and connections to marry a poorer man. However, I also ascertained – and here you must forgive my indelicacy - that you did not care for him. You will recall that I asked you about your wedding. It was plain to me from your manner of speaking that the memory was a source of aggravation rather than pleasure to you. I also noted, as it is my profession to note, that your… preferences in a partner… lay in another direction.”

I believe that, in all the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had never once heard him stumble over his words, or hesitate so long in their selection. His unexpected sensitivity touched me deeply, even as I hurried to his aid. 

“The truth is, madam, that my friend is an arrogant fellow,” I remarked in a cheerful tone. “He is accustomed to seeing ladies, and indeed gentlemen, fall at his feet if he so much as bats an eyelid in their direction. Your immunity to his charms was a perplexing mystery and a blow to his ego. When he observed your very natural response to the beautiful young lady who called upon us a few minutes later, I am sure it was a tremendous relief to him in every respect.”

Mrs. Jennings made an indeterminate sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and buried her face in her hands. It took several moments for her to regain her composure; when she looked up, however, her colour had returned, and there was the trace of a smile about her lips. “I see that I can conceal nothing,” she said. “Forgive me for not confiding in you from the beginning: you will surely understand my reasons. This is a matter about which I have only ever dared to speak to one other soul, before you. Yes, I love a woman. Your acceptance of the fact is a most wonderful relief.”

Holmes had likewise turned towards me, and the warmth of his expression stole my breath. “My very dear friend has, as ever, found just the right words for the occasion,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine before he returned his attention to our client. “I confirm that my discovery of your inclinations was truly of no consequence to me, except insofar as it answered a question that I had posed myself, and furthered my interest in your case.

You had not, then, married your husband for fortune or for affection. What had induced you to such a step? Here, I was obliged to fall back upon probabilities and speculation. You might have been motivated by a general fear that your preferences would otherwise be discovered. Yet the timing of your marriage was suggestive, occurring at a juncture when your husband-to-be was in urgent need of funds. I therefore hypothesised that he had some power over you, and had chosen that moment to exercise it. Perhaps he made a specific threat to denounce you as an invert if you refused him.”

Mrs. Jennings nodded. “My family would certainly have broken all ties with me,” she said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “My mother has always suspected that there is something unusual in my attractions. She made it very clear to me how relieved she was that I had taken a husband, even one so far beneath me in station. I tried to make the best of it; I thought that through marriage, Christopher and I could both obtain something that we needed. But he became tyrannical: dropping hints of all he knew to my disadvantage, extorting ever increasing sums of money, and finally forbidding me to visit my dear Joanna. It was she who persuaded me to consult you, risk though it was, in the hope that we might gain some leverage to counter his.”

“That was my motivation for taking your case,” Holmes replied. “I surmised as much during the course of your first visit, and was convinced that I could be of service to you, although perhaps not in the manner that you had supposed. Your scheme was conceived out of desperation, and was very unlikely to succeed. Even if your husband had been unfaithful, you could scarcely threaten him with exposure on that account, given that his evidence against you was of far longer standing.”

“‘Was’ being the operative word,” I remarked pointedly, glancing at the folders on the table.

“Quite so,” Holmes replied, flashing me a grin. “Dr. Watson and I liberated the evidence in question from your husband’s office yesterday evening. Seven years of detectives’ reports on your visits to Curzon Street are now at your disposal. Since they were no doubt purchased with your money, I have no scruple in allowing you to deal with them as you see fit.”

“Oh, burn them, if you please!” 

“With pleasure. We were in need of kindling. Watson, would you do the honours?”

The afternoon sun had long since been smothered by a greying mist, and the room was chilly, although I had scarcely noticed it until that moment. I scraped together the coals in the fireplace, then took several pages from Turpin’s report and tore them vindictively into strips before setting the whole lot ablaze. I believe that all three of us felt the warmer and the brighter for it: we smiled at each other like mischievous children as the flames rose and the sparks crackled against the chimneypiece.

“Excellent!” Holmes rubbed his hands. “Thus, my dear lady, your husband has no further hold over you at present. And at this point, objectively, my advice to you would be never to give him further cause for suspicion. Should you choose to ignore this advice, however, I have a further offer to make.

Dr. Watson was, I believe, distracted at the time, but I paid close attention to your husband’s transaction with Turpin yesterday evening. He paid him a mere two pounds. This, for seven days and seven nights of work! Turpin generally charges three times the amount. Such a discount could only ever be offered to a favoured client, from whom he has received, or hopes to receive, a great deal of extra business.”

“Jennings has other victims!” I exclaimed.

“Can this truly surprise you, after all the cases that we have worked together?” Holmes asked me, with affectionate exasperation. “A blackmailer, especially one so obviously fond of high living, is extremely unlikely to confine himself to one victim. Fortunately, Mr. Jennings has only recently branched out: we would otherwise have had great difficulty in transporting the requisite evidence last night.”

He reached beneath his desk and drew out another pile of folders, neatly labelled and dated like the first. 

“I cannot allow you to look into these,” he warned our client. “The reports concern others who are in an equally unfortunate situation to yourself. However, there is sufficient material here for me to ensure, with the help of a contact of ours at Scotland Yard, your husband’s conviction for blackmail and extortion. He is but a petty criminal: he would spend two years in prison, and would afterwards no doubt exact his revenge upon you and yours. The alternative is that you use the threat of conviction as the leverage that you have spoken of: an incentive for him to cease his interference in your affairs and, if so much can be achieved, his interference in the affairs of others. In this, too, I will engage to assist you as far as I am able. I place the decision in your hands.”

Mrs. Jennings was now regarding him with a touch of awe; her former reserve had all but melted away. “I am truly astounded at how much you have accomplished,” she said. “I cannot ever thank you, or your friend, enough. With one evening’s work, you have freed me from troubles that had tormented me for almost a decade.”

“It was, in the end, a very simple affair,” Holmes replied. “The difficulty will lie in exploiting what we have learned to bring about a satisfactory resolution. You will first wish to consult with Miss Warrens, who has, I believe, been waiting for you on the street corner this past half hour.”

Mrs. Jennings gave an exclamation of concern and hurried to the window. “Oh, indeed! I told her that I would return within twenty minutes. How I must have worried her!” She hastily gathered up her cloak and hat. “You will excuse me, gentlemen? We will discuss the alternatives that you have presented to me, and return tomorrow to consult with you further.”

“I would advise you not to go home in the meantime,” Holmes cautioned. “I endeavoured to conceal the absence of these files with empty covers and blank paper from an adjacent office, but your husband may already have noticed that they are gone.”

With a repetition of her thanks, which Holmes waved aside, Mrs. Jennings took her leave. I do not exaggerate when I write that there was a new sparkle in her eyes, and a spring in her step. I joined Holmes at the window, and watched her cross the street to where another young lady stood waiting. Although more homely, and more simply dressed, Miss Warrens was nonetheless radiant as she advanced to meet her companion. She took both her hands with affectionate confidence and stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheeks. The two of them lingered for a moment in animated conversation, their smiling faces illuminated by their pocket lantern. Then finally Miss Warrens gave a cheerful wave in the direction of our windows, and they set off together down the street, arm in arm.

Emotion clogged my throat and brought tears to my eyes. I had never in my life been prouder to call Sherlock Holmes my friend. And in that moment my doubts fell away, and I resolved to seek with him, if he would accept me, that deeper intimacy that I had dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked the UST at breakfast, all credit to my beta Emma Ockham for suggesting the scene. A huge THANK YOU to her, and to everyone who has left comments and kudos. Your encouragement keeps me writing.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes and I stood together at the window for several minutes after our client and her lover had disappeared from sight. The street below us was crowded in spite of the gloom: hansoms splashed through the mud, the breath of the horses mingling with the fog, and cloaked and shivering pedestrians darted like shadows beneath the gas lamps. Our warm, bright lodgings were as if a world apart, existing for us alone. The very walls were steeped with our history: the soft contentment of quiet evenings spent together, the thrill of our shared adventures, the glow and spark of a fast-forged friendship.

That friendship now demanded perfect openness between us. Any attempt to conceal my sentiments from Holmes would be futile and, worse still, craven. Had I felt half as much for any woman, I would not have hesitated to declare myself. But yet, how dauntingly strange it would be, to thus address my closest friend! I had no experience with this; no notion of the words or the actions required. I had no reason to hope that I could ever be more to him than I was now.

“That was truly well done,” I said at last, in a low voice.

He shrugged. “As I said, the case was simple enough. And, for the rest, I merely obeyed my own sense of justice. On reflection, I found that I was more willing to condone infidelity and indecency than blackmail. I am glad that you agree.”

“Holmes, do not pretend to be less than you are. You are not only guided by logic: you have a generous heart and a depth of empathy that was never more apparent to me than today.”

He turned towards me, startled, his gaze flickering from my flushed face to my clenched fingers. “You are quite emotional, Watson. The romantic in you seeks yet again to cast me as a hero. But you must be aware that our client and her lover have little chance of a truly happy ending.”

“Their intimacy will always be overshadowed by threats,” I conceded. “But your intervention has given them some agency and a great deal of hope. For _them_ , it is the happiest ending that can be achieved.”

He regarded me curiously. “Yesterday evening, when I first mentioned the possibility of homosexual attraction, your response was one of disbelief and distaste.”

“That was wrong of me. It was not a matter to which I had previously given much constructive thought.”

“Presumably you had no reason to do so,” he sighed. “But yet, you are the warmest hearted man that I know. I would have been astonished if you had persisted in condemning a mutual love between two equals for mere reasons of convention.”

I swallowed hard against the ache of emotion. Overt praise from Holmes was rare; in such a moment it could not fail to affect me.

“What is troubling you, Watson?” he asked, quietly.

I did not trust my voice to make an immediate reply. Instead, I closed the curtains and moved towards my armchair. Holmes followed, and we seated ourselves at opposite sides of the fireplace. We had sat together in this way countless times before. The familiarity of the scene went some small way towards steadying my nerves.

“I have a few things on my mind,” I began awkwardly, after a moment. “Holmes, what is your true opinion of my relationship with Miss Morstan?”

He compressed his lips and shifted in his chair. “You have asked me not to affect an aloof detachment from human emotions. I will therefore admit that I cannot provide an impartial judgement. My ability to draw inferences from observed behaviour is compromised when the individuals in question are my friends.”

I could not help but smile at so convoluted an evasion of my question.

“That is a pity,” I remarked. “Applied to one’s own concerns, such powers must be infinitely more valuable. Many would-be lovers would give their right arm for the ability to gauge the state of another person’s affections.”

“You exaggerate beyond bounds, as ever, Watson,” he replied, scowling into the fireplace. “But if you truly wish for my opinion, you shall have it: I am in no doubt that Miss Morstan returns your sentiments.”

“It is not she to whom I am referring.”

I am certain that he heard me, but he did not react at all; his posture was rigid and forbidding, his eyes still fixed on the flames. With a touch of desperation, I continued: “Yesterday, when you were observing Mrs. Jennings and Miss Morstan, you also looked at me: why?”

“For the purpose of calibration, naturally. I was comparing the passing appreciation of a stranger with that of a man in love.”

“And what were your findings?”

“They were inconclusive,” he answered, jaw clenched, and then all at once his stormy eyes were full upon mine. “If you must know, I received the impression that you were less strongly attracted to Miss Morstan than you were to _me_! You can now see the extent to which my judgement is impaired.”

A thrill passed through me at this unexpected opening; my heart leapt against my ribs. “Not at all,” I said quickly, holding his gaze, “for it is perfectly true.”

“Physical attraction does not equate to a desire for intimacy.”

“In this case, it does,” I countered, my throat constricting with the import of my words. “Holmes, I would never presume upon our friendship. If you do not wish for this, consider the subject closed between us. Yet… if you could ever…”

“You are too hasty, Watson,” he interjected, his voice calm, though strained. “Based upon the insights of a single day, you are reevaluating all your current relationships. Your opinions will soon settle, and then you will wish these words unspoken.”

“That is not true!” I exclaimed, deeply stung. “Can you really believe that I would hold you so cheaply, or risk our friendship upon a whim?”

“I hardly know.” He rose to his feet, and walked restlessly towards the window. “At this hour yesterday, you were planning to leave me for Mary Morstan. You had known _her_ for all of three weeks.”

The magnitude of that error was only now becoming clear to me; the defiance in his voice and defeat in his posture sent the realisation twisting through me like a knife. I had believed him indifferent; I had thought that my marriage posed no greater threat to our friendship than a change of lodgings and an additional claim upon my time. But he had rightly seen it as the reckless abandonment of all that we shared.

"I swear to you, Holmes: _that_ was the mistake, not this.” I stood too, my heart pounding with the force of my sincerity. “Our friendship is the most important of my life; as to anything more…”

He turned away; I stepped swiftly forward to bar his path. “Perhaps you do not wish to hear this from me. But I need you to understand: I have been blind to my own desires until today. I never thought to make the comparison before, but now that I have, I find that Miss Morstan has not ever been more enticing, more absorbing, more beloved, more _anything_ to me, than you!”

He stared at me, lips parted, a flush creeping over his face. I took his hand and caressed it with shaking fingers, unable to help myself, unsure of what else to do, since he remained silent. The momentum of my declaration dissipated fast, leaving me exposed and overwhelmed. I watched his face, shuttered now as his eyes dropped to our hands. I steeled myself for his rejection; I felt, to my wonder, his fingers intertwine with mine.

“It is _you_ that I choose, whatever the outcome of this conversation,” I murmured, raising his hand to my lips. “Say something, Holmes, _please_.”

“John…”

The dam cracked at the sound of his voice, speaking my name. I stepped forward, heart bursting, and pressed my lips to his. He gasped, but did not pull away, and after a moment he shifted against me, angling his face to mine and returning my kiss. His lips were tender, his touch almost reverent; the intensity was such that my eyes drifted shut, even as my other senses saturated with his nearness. I stood as though dazed, inhaling his breath, cupping his cheek in my hand and feeling his rough, warm skin beneath my fingertips. I leaned against him, and relaxed into his arms as they tightened around me. This was completion; this was bliss as I had never known it. Until that morning I had not even considered it possible.

“Lock the door,” he murmured at last, and I released him reluctantly to do so. When I returned, he was leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes fever-bright and his hair in disarray from the passage of his fingers.

“You made me a declaration just now, which I fear was met with monosyllabic ineloquence on my part,” he said, smiling faintly. “John, I have wanted you since the moment we met, and have been in love with you for almost as long. I did not always care to admit it,” he added, his voice dropping lower as I stepped again into the circle of his arms. “I took the case in part out of desperation, as a last opportunity to test your sentiments before your marriage.”

“You have already told me that you are not a hero, Sherlock,” I breathed distractedly, and then, without any conscious decision on my part, I was kissing him again.

This time, we were not tentative at all. I dragged him close, slid my hands into his hair and my tongue between his lips, and he met each advance with increasing fervour. I had wondered if it would feel strange to make love to a man, but the only difference that mattered now was that this man was Sherlock Holmes: his brilliant mind focused on me, his lithe body firm against mine, his skillful fingers already working the buttons of my waistcoat. My whole being quickened in response to him; my blood pounded waywardly to my cheeks and to my groin.

I gasped and shivered as he removed my shirt, until his hot mouth teased over the exposed skin of my shoulder, and an answering heat rose within me wherever his lips touched. His fingers on my bare chest caressed, circled and squeezed until I lost focus and could only clutch at his waist and pant against his cheek. But then I found the wherewithal to slide my hands into his back trouser pockets and pull him towards me, and his knees almost gave way as he melted against me.

“Sofa,” he gasped, and we stumbled backwards, fumbling at each other’s belts and buttons. He fell hard onto the cushions and I fell with him, my trousers around my knees.

He seized my hips and arched up against me, and we both groaned at the aching pleasure of the contact. His head dropped back and I buried my face into the crook of his neck, kissing him, tasting his skin, desperate to be closer. I wanted him so badly that words failed me; even actions barely sufficed. I rocked my hips against his; he answered my rhythm, and then the world stood still: there was nothing but the strain and tremble of my muscles, and the piercing sweetness where our bodies touched. He slipped a hand between us, aligning my erection to his, and the pleasure spiralled wildly: blinding, so intense that I could scarcely breathe until it broke over me like a flood wave, and I stifled a cry against his shoulder.

As my vision cleared, I saw that his face was strained; his eyes were tight shut, his hand still moving between us. I pulled his arm away and replaced his fingers with my own, cherishing the firmness of his prick within my hand, and the strange new intimacy of the touch. I stroked him slowly; his breathing hitched and his body trembled. “I love you,” I murmured, tightening my grip and moving slightly faster. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“Not…directly…” he gasped, and I felt a childish satisfaction at having once more rendered him inarticulate. “You… merely said that I… ah!” I bent my head and touched my lips to the salty tip of his prick, and he flung his arm across his face.

When I was intimate with women, their response to me, and the pleasure that I could bring them, interested me more than my own completion. With Holmes, whose every word and gesture had long been my obsession, the fascination was acute. I took his balls in my hand and gently rubbed and squeezed him, pressing hot kisses to his prick. His hips jerked uncontrollably and he moaned my name. Steadying him with my free hand, I took his length into my mouth and watched, mesmerised, as the tension shifted throughout his body: his face slackening, stomach clenching, hips straining towards me. A few experimental twists of my tongue had him writhing beneath me. He was close to the edge: too close for me to tease him, so I hollowed my cheeks and slipped my other hand downwards to press against his perineum. With a startled cry, he climaxed into my mouth, leaving me choking and spluttering like the novice that I was.

“My God, John!” he said breathlessly, staring up at me in a mixture of awe and consternation. “I am terribly sorry. But that was entirely your own fault!”

Love and happiness swelled so sharply in my chest that I burst out laughing. He grinned, and shifted to make room for me as I lay down to face him. My hands drifted to the nape of his neck, the warmth of his skin seeping into the backs of my fingers.

“You will not constantly be comparing me with Miss Morstan?” he asked, cutting through the blissful haze.

I pulled him closer. “Never again, nor with anyone else. My perspective may have altered, but my feelings for you are not the impulse of a moment. It is clear to me now that I have wanted this all along.”

“Our very own love affair,” he remarked, with a wry smile. “Complete with hesitations, false beginnings, blushing disavowals, and even delicate euphemisms, if I recall correctly.”

“How very tedious,” I agreed, straight-faced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you just love the Victorians? They’re so eloquent and poetic, and such fun to write! :-) 
> 
> A final THANK YOU to my beta Emma Ockham for all her help and patience with this chapter. Thank you also to RosiePaw, JonDoe, Hope_Austen, GlamPixie, emmybm15 and inthewind101 for their encouraging comments, and to everyone else who has read and kudoed this story. I’m thrilled that you enjoyed it!


End file.
